Folie à deux
by pondglorious
Summary: Hannibal/Phantom of the Opera AU. (Hannibal as the Phantom, Will as Christine. Alana as Raoul) Will Graham seeks friendship and refuge in the mysterious Hannibal Lecter, but begins to unravel the dark secret he's hiding behind a mask, both figuratively and literally.
1. Chapter 1

It all begins the day Will mentions Alana Bloom for the first time.

Just the plain mention of a woman's name makes Hannibal's eyes darken and singe with a red glint. Will doesn't notice at first; he's so used to revealing everything to this man that he never considered that a problem would ever result. But he's never had a woman to mention before, and he never expected to.

He can't help talking about her; the words flow out of his mouth like a river and he just can't stop, talking about her shiny black hair and irresistible voice and her ability to make him feel human again.

It's not until years after the fact that Will comes up with a term for why Hannibal had shifted uncomfortably in his seat, why his mouth set in a cold, hard line, why he'd advised against any romantic interaction with this woman. He hates to think of the word as it pierces his mind so keenly: Jealousy.

…

Will always wished he could find refuge in sleep. For most humans, it was a time when the brain was shut off, the emotions deactivated, when they could lay for hours in their sweet glimpse of death. Will had nightmares, though, which prevented him from savoring the simple privilege of a tranquil mind.

His dreams consisted of all the violent details of his work, of all the pleading victims, of all the ruthless killers. There was an endless supply of blood in his mind. He'd seen the insides of a human flipped to the outside so many times that laying his eyes on organs ripped from pink flesh doesn't phase him at all. In his dreams, as in his work, there were no boundaries as to the cruel acts of mankind.

He is always there, though, lurking in the corner of Will's eye as he wandered the deepest domains of his nightmares. He was constantly taking a different shape or form, but it was always him. The shape in which he morphed most frequently was that of a stag, calling to Will and beckoning him forth to some mysteriously awaiting fate. Still, it never directly interferes, never attempts to prevent or save Will from all the horror, horror, horror.

He can't seek refuge in rest.

So he seeks refuge in Hannibal Lecter.

...

Will can't fathom how the mysterious, masked man came to be in his life. It was easy to forget about such things. His job at the FBI was slowly crumbling him to pieces, and Hannibal made him believe he could put them back together. He was the only stable thing in the chaotic mess of Will's life; seeing him made Will feel as if he were grounded, as if he had a friend. Will had never had many friends; he found human interaction to be something tedious and unpleasant, and he wanted to avoid it at all costs. It was easy talking to him, though. And They talked about Will so much that after awhile he stopped questioning the never ending mysteries of Hannibal.

All Will knew was that he was always there, to pull him out when the relentless tide felt like it was going to pull him under. But Will didn't realize Hannibal was merely pulling him under a tide of his own.

Maybe it was the friend of a friend that introduced them. Maybe he'd met him the few times he ventured out in public, maybe they met through work. It all becomes a hazy daze of long, one-sided conversations, of hours spent sifting through the never ending array of books in the office, of wine poured in two glasses when it was late and Will had to be out on at work in the morning and should have been home sleeping.

Hannibal slipped in through the cracks when Will wasn't looking and planted himself firmly there, in the spaces between good and bad thoughts, between the pure and evil parts of Will until he was interwoven too tightly to become undone.

Even the mask, after a while, became something of normalcy. The mask wiped away all possibilities of judgement, of harsh stares of pity that everyone else threw at him on a daily basis. He never wanted Hannibal to take it off, so he never mentioned it. He feared for its removal; never because he suspected something horrible lie underneath, but because it made him feel safe, protected, even though it served to hide Hannibal. It became invisible; Will often forgot it was there. It was like it was just part of his face, part who he was, and seeing it removed would be a violation, a scandal on all counts.

"I keep thinking about this one quote I read," Says Will in one afternoon appointment. "C.S. Lewis, I believe. 'You don't have a soul. You are a soul; You have a body.' But...I don't feel like either, Doctor. I feel like an an empty embodiment of my own grotesque mind. I am a mind, not a body. I am a mind, not a soul."

"Walter M. Miller." Hannibal grunts thoughtfully.

"What?"

"It was Walter M. Miller, not C.S. Lewis, who wrote the quote you mentioned. Do you view your mind as grotesque, Will?"

"Yes."

"Your mind is merely different. It's one of the many burdens that comes along with a gift such as yours. But your mentality is the very core of your being; you must learn to accept it for what it is. Do you think you can do that?"

Will doesn't think he can, but he nods anyways, and the subject doesn't get brought up again.

….

"I kissed Alana Bloom." Will uses this phrase in greeting as he pointedly walks through Hannibal's door uninvited, tossing his coat nonchalantly on a chair. Bits of snow still cling to his hair and his eyelashes, and he tries his best to shake them off; it's one of the coldest nights of the year.

"Well," Says Hannibal, an amused tilt in his voice, "come in."

He follows Will into the dining room.

"You've come just in time. I've made dessert." Says Hannibal, going into the kitchen to pull it out of the oven. "What was her reaction?"

"She said that she wouldn't be good for me, and I wouldn't be good for her."

They sit down at the table, Hannibal setting an elaborate dish in front of Will. He hungrily devours it. "And I don't disagree." Hannibal says smoothly.

The comment strikes Will as odd; he doesn't even know Alana. How could he agree? "She will feel an obligation to her field of study to observe you," Hannibal continues, "and you would resent her for it."

"I know." sighs Will.

"I was wondering then, why you kissed her...And why you drove an hour in the snow just to tell me about it." There's something in his voice like pride for Will. "You've wanted to for a long time, I know. You waited. I presume, then, there was a specific reason beyond wanting to?"

Will hesitates. "I...heard an animal...trapped in my chimney." Hannibal stops what he's doing and merely looks at Will, as if he's concerned. "Broke through the wall to get it out, didn't find anything inside. Alana showed up...she looked at me...something changed in her face, her eyes...she knew."

"What did she know, Will?" Hannibal eggs him on.

"There was no animal in the chimney," says Will almost angrily, "It was only in my head." Panic rises in his voice. "I sleepwalk. I have headaches. I'm hearing things...I feel unstable."

"So that's why you kissed her." Hannibal replies calmly. "A clutch for balance. You said yourself, what you do is not good for you."

"Unfortunately, I am good for it.

"You worked on a case today as well, I presume?"

Will nods. "The same one. The murder at the symphony."

"You've had a long night, Will. You're probably exhausted."

He hadn't been, before; the adrenaline running through him had been too strong, and he'd been jumpy the whole ride to Hannibal's house. But suddenly he felt tired beyond belief; his eyelids were heavy and his limbs felt like they were going to collapse under him, and his brain was becoming foggy.

"It's getting very late. I would hate for you to drive all the way home at this hour, in the dark. The snow's almost covering the streets now. I can't allow you to leave under such conditions."

"Then...what will I do?" Will mumbles drowsily.

"There's a guest bedroom upstairs. I must insist you stay."

Hannibal rises from his chair and helps Will out of his, struggling to regain his balance as he's set back on his feet. Will allows himself to be guided through the labyrinth of hallways of Hannibal's house until they reach the guest bedroom, Hannibal supporting Will's weight in his drowsy state the entire way.

Will automatically crawls into bed, and Hannibal stands, hovering by the doorframe, watching.

"I'd like you to stay with me for a while, Will." Hannibal says quietly, almost timidly. "In fact, as your psychologist, I highly advise it."

A pregnant silence ensues as Will takes a moment to absorb Hannibal's proposition; though it didn't sound like a proposition at all. He guessed that even if he refused, Hannibal wouldn't let him go anyways.

"But, I...I have work. And I've run out of pills." He takes the empty bottle from his pocket and shakes it, demonstrating its hollowness. "And my dogs..."

"I will take care of your dogs, and I will make sure you are supplied with all the pills you need. I will take care of everything." Hannibal's voice is so confident and reassuring that Will couldn't help believe every word. "You must rest now, Will." The last thing he hears before his heavy eyes close is Hannibal's softly spoken command: "rest."

…

In the night, as the tendrils of sleep lull him in and out of consciousness, Will thinks he can hear the haunting, distant sound of a organ playing. But, as he assumes as he's drifting back to sleep, it was probably imagined.

…

Will wakes to a harsh sunlight streaming in through the curtains, and feels the soft, clean bedsheets surrounding his body. For a moment he lays with his eyes closed, savoring the most peaceful sleep he's had in years. He had a dream still, of course- but it was peaceful in a way the others weren't. The stag had simply walked alongside him on a deserted highway, trailing after Will like a silent companion.

He's startled when he opens his eyes to see Hannibal standing in the doorway, silently, staring.

"Good morning, Will- Or should I say afternoon. You've slept all day."

Will glances at the digital clock on the bedside table and notes the time: 2:24 p.m.

"I didn't hear you come in." He mutters, groggy from sleep.

"I've just run some errands." Hannibal continues, "Wash up and come downstairs when you're ready."

He exits without waiting for a response.

He hadn't had time to explore his bedroom the night before; but he finds a tiny bathroom adjoining it in the hall, and takes a quick shower there. Back in the bedroom afterwards, he finds a dresser with drawers full of clothes of his exact size and style. He considers it odd for a moment, but doesn't dwell on it as he dresses in them. There are lots of odd things about Hannibal; why start questioning them now?

…

When he arrives downstairs, Hannibal is cooking. Will can tell before he reaches the landing, the mouthwatering smell drifting up to tickle his nostrils, teasing him.

"You're malnourished, Will. Sickly-looking, in fact. We need to get some food in you." Hannibal announces when he walks into the kitchen, not looking up from chopping up vegetables. "I've prepared us a feast."

…

The feast is large and absolutely delectable, and Will scarfs it down without speaking a word the entire time, while Hannibal looks over him in amused approval.

Will had gotten too much sleep that day; at night he lays awake, thrashing around, and trying to decide if he really even wants to sleep or not.

His internal debate comes to a halt when he hears it again; the organ playing.

He shoots up in bed, trying to determine the source of the sound. Silently leaps up and creeps out of his room and halts in the hallway, counting the moments he stands there by keeping track of his beating heart. It interferes with the music. It's pumping against his chest like it wants to escape, and he feels like he's in one of his dreams, the ones where it beats so hard and loud he thinks it's trapped in his skull instead of his ribs.

He follows the sound of the entrancing music all the way through the house, until he's gone down multiple flights of stairs and checked through numerous closed doors and wandered through a labyrinth of long, deserted hallways. Finally, the music seems to be coming closer and closer until he finds the door in which it is drifting through the house from, and pushes the door fully open.

He wants, he was going to tell Hannibal to shut the hell up so he could sleep, but the thought is diminished when he sees him there on the piano bench, strong hands striking the organ keys brutally, producing the alluring but deafening sound previously preventing Will from sleep. But it was intoxicating, now, the beauty of it all, the way Hannibal sprawled his fingers across the keys as if he were a professional.

He doesn't know what made him do it; maybe it was anger at Hannibal for deciding to practice at this hour of night when he knew Will had enough trouble sleeping as it is. Maybe it was merely the curiosity that had been gnawing away at his mind for a while. Maybe it was simply the possession the music had over him, controlling his limbs and his decision making abilities with its powerful pull and hold on him...it's grasp on his mind was just as tight and unceasing as the one Hannibal alone had on it.

He sneaks up behind Hannibal dreamily, the harsh music blocking out any sound of his footsteps. With one quick thrust of his hand Will pulls Hannibal's mask off, and without looking back, Hannibal throws him to the ground, the mask still clutched in Will's hand and falling oh the hard floor beside him.

The music stops. It shatters around them, the silence breaking it's melody into pieces, and Will's breathing stops with it. Any weariness he'd felt before was suddenly and shockingly diminished. For a moment Hannibal sits completely and utterly still at the bench, not even seeming to be breathing as well. Then he turns around slowly and Will's breathing increases until it's coming in heavy gasps; Hannibal seems to be giving him time to prepare as he turns so slowly it feels like ages before they're finally face to face.

And when they are face to face, what a sight it is. Will has to fight the impulse to scream; to flee. It's like he's staring at the monster from his nightmares, except now the appalling damage is on the outside, instead of trapped inside the cage of a mind.

Hannibal's face was a gnarled mess; it didn't look like a face at all. He looked like a horrible, savage animal. The skin was a sickening yellow color and wrinkled like old paper, leathery and contorted. It sagged as if it was too baggy for his skull; it other places it was too taut, stretched to the point of tearing. There were marks that looked to be scars, burns, etched all across his face, some red with blood boiling underneath, some white with lumpy tissue. Some scars were raised and some seemed to be branded into his cheek; it was all a jumbled mess of various textures of skin, all equally as gruesome. And his nose was flattened down as if it had been ripped off completely, leaving nothing but two nostrils in the middle of his face, as if he were merely a skull attached to his skeleton-like body.

Hannibal's mouth snarled into a furious smile and his eyes bloodshot and bulging in rage were the most terrifying things of all. But he didn't erupt into a frenzy of fury as Will had expected; he surveyed Will cowering on the floor, and the anger in his eyes suddenly melted into something that looked like sorrow. It looked forced, though, as if he were straining and struggling to place the emotion there.

"Well, Will." begins Hannibal, his voice low and choked. "I was wondering when your curiosity would get the best of you." His eyes were squinted and forming into slits, scrutinizing Will as he remained laying on the floor, too horrified to move or even think. Hannibal began to circle him, prowling like an animal closing in on its prey.

"Go on, feast your eyes," Says Hannibal. "I can only imagine the burning desire you've had to do so all this time. It's only natural to be curious about what hides in the shadows, in the mask. Though I am rather shocked to find you chose a time like this to act on your desires...considering the length, the depth of our relationship."

His head snapped forward to look Will straight in the face, and no matter how desperately he wanted to, he couldn't tear his eyes away.

"Are you afraid?" Hannibal hissed.

Without thinking, Will nodded. Hannibal sighed and let out a sad chuckle. "Rightfully so."

Will suddenly snapped back to his senses and fumbled with his words, attempting to fix the terribly melancholy expression that has crossed Hannibal's face. "No-I-I..not afraid-"

"No need correct yourself, Will. Your words hold no purpose for me...when I can see it in your eyes. The distaste, the revulsion, the fright. Is it stranger than you ever fathomed? Does it pain you to think of me now and everything we've shared, when you look upon my true self, this sickening corpse of a man? Go ahead, Will," snapped Hannibal, "run. Run away. Escape if you'd like, I won't stop you. I don't blame you. I know you want to; I would, too."

Horrible guilt washed over Will. He had so many questions now; how did it get that way, how do you get around having to wear the mask, who else knows...but he knew it clearly wasn't the right time. So much fell into place at the same time; the way Hannibal surrounded himself with things of beauty, from his expensive furniture and priceless art to the extravagant operas he attended. It was now that Will also remembered never seeing a mirror in the house at all.

The guilt was now being piled and buried by sadness, by pity. His mind was whirling with thoughts of Hannibal's isolation, of the grief and heartache he must feel every day over what hid beneath the mask he had crafted perfectly to hide himself from the world in shame.

He looked over at it, laying cracked and peaceful beside Will on the ground. Slowly, with shaking hands, he picked it up and reached up to hand it to Hannibal, a peace offering.

Hannibal looked down at Will's hand, making the mask tremble, solemnly. Gently he took it from Will's grasp and turned to replace it on his face. Will lets out a small breath of relief.

Turning towards Will again, Hannibal says as his normal calming voice returns to him, "Come, you must get some rest, William. You've had quite a fright."

He holds out a hand to pull Will to his feet, and he follows Hannibal back up to his room obediently, feeling more uneasy than he'd ever felt in his presence before.


	2. Chapter 2

They don't speak of the incident again; it becomes an unspoken agreement to forget and Will doesn't protest; but that doesn't stop it from constantly hanging in the back of his mind like a fog, and he can't shake the feeling of guilt and terror and confusion and fascination condensed in it at once.

It also becomes an unspoken agreement for Will to stay as long as possible, whether he was willing or not. He knows Hannibal, in his seclusion, needs him, just as Will needs Hannibal all the same.

Hannibal has patients during the day, so Will spends his mornings wandering alone in a daze around the mysterious mansion of Hannibal Lecter. The rooms, the hallways, they're all never ending, and Will thinks he could live in this house for the rest of his life and still not discovered every crack and crevice of the magnificent house.

The immense library surrounding the walls of Hannibal's in-home office is the main source for entertainment. Will never has time or energy to read for pleasure in his day to day life, so he reads and reads until his eyes feel like they're going to fall out from scanning page after page after page.

In the afternoon, he has his regularly scheduled appointments with Hannibal..

At night, he sits in a large armchair by the fire with a glass of whiskey in hand, poured and brought to him by Hannibal upon request. Hannibal sits opposite of Will, sometimes reading, sometimes sketching, sometimes making comfortable small talk and enjoying the peace of it all.

Will likes to watch Hannibal when he draws. He likes to see the way his large, strong hands grip the little pencil and mark the paper in smooth strokes. He makes it look easy, effortless. His eyebrows never fury in determination. Lines never form in his forehead from concentrating too hard. He draws the same way he cooks, the same way he talks, reflecting every aspect of his life; precise, calm, controlled, never daring to make a mistake.

And in the morning, the afternoon, and at night, they dine. Hannibal always finds time in his carefully executed routine to prepare the most elaborate and exotic meals, and so the feasts becomes a part of Will's life just as everything else in Hannibal Lecter's has.

Despite Will's new, unearned lavish lifestyle, he feels an itch, a longing that tugs relentlessly on the back of his mind. He misses his fishing rods and his dogs. He misses his own bed and his tiny, dark house and his long walks out to the field to stare at the fading lights in the distance, the darkness. He misses sitting on his porch surrounded by his dogs with a glass of whiskey in hand, and, on colder nights, a mug of tea. He even misses work, the work that drives him to the edge, that he seeked refuge from here in the first place.

Most of all, he misses Alana. He feels guilty thinking about her, when Hannibal told him not to, when she so bluntly refused him for the sake of both of their well-beings. Still, he misses her. He misses her with a twisted ferocity, one he shouldn't feel for someone he probably didn't know well enough to be missing at all. But what else could he make of the way he'd lay awake when everything was still and quiet at night, and she would drift into his thoughts as if she simply belonged there, and all he could feel was the weight of her hand on his and the soft stroke of her thumb against his cheek?

He knows he has to do something when the dreams start becoming gruesome again. The stag isn't friendly anymore- it stares at Will with glowing red eyes, head tilted down, like it's about impale him with its antlers. He always panics, wanting to run, but his feet are planted firmly on the ground. When he wakes up in the night drowning in a cold sweat, he can think nothing of being home, and seeing Alana again, and even everyone back and the FBI Academy, whom he never thought he was capable of missing.

"I've been...thinking." says Will casually one night over a dinner of lamb chops and green beans, a dish simpler and easier to pronounce than is usually served to him.

"I should hope so." replies Hannibal coolly, taking a sip of wine.

"No, I mean, about this- about- whatever's going on here. I mean, you've been so generous, letting me stay here and all that, but...I can't stay here forever. I have a home, a job, a life that I'm going to have to start living again, sooner or later."

Hannibal freezes, his fork hanging in mid-air halfway to his mouth, and says briskly, "I was not aware you were so unhappy here. After I've done my best to make you comfortable."

A lump rises in Will's throat. Suddenly he feels guilty. He wants desperately to apologize, to make it go away and forget about, to finish his meal and sit by the fire like he had never uttered the truth. He wanted- no, he needed- to please Hannibal at all costs.

"No, of course I'm happy here, and I appreciate everything you've done for me, but- I at least need to get out sometimes. I mean, I've been bottled up in here for so long. I'd like some fresh air once in awhile."

"Not an unreasonable request." Hannibal says thoughtfully, taking another bite of meat. He then leans back in his chair, chewing and swallowing for a moment before saying, "I think it's time we get you out as well. I'll see what I can do. Perhaps we can discuss it later." He points a fork at Will's plate full of food, barely touched. "Finish your dinner." He orders.

Will obeys.

…

The next day, Will wakes up and Hannibal has already gone, and he assumes he just wants to avoid the prospect of taking Will out for some strange, inexplicable reason. He finds a breakfast of orange juice, coffee, toast, and omelets laid out neatly on the table, and a note that reads:

_Will,_

_My sincere apologies if awoke you when I departed this morning. I expect to be back late afternoon, as I have patients to tend to in the morning and errands to run afterwards._

_I know you have been intent on going out. So, I will have a special treat for you when I return._

_Kindly don't let your breakfast grow cold._

_Hannibal_

He reads the note as he butters his toast, and suddenly it makes him _angry_- the way Hannibal is so collected all the time, so cold and calculating and still managing to be polite and friendly and generous. It made him realize the extent of his vulnerability. Here he was opening every part of his mind up to a man he knew nothing about, except what he looked like with a real mask stripped away, no idea what he looked like when his mask of charm and generosity was lifted. Will was leaving his mind open it be analyzed and operated on while the doctor stood still frustratingly mysterious and emotionless with his scalpel ready in hand. The mask just fueled the fire; it was impossible to see Hannibal's expression. The only part of his face revealed was his full lips, always curved into an amused smirk, and his eyes, burning and flickering with some distant emotion Will couldn't put his finger on.

Yet, every time he opened up his mind to Hannibal, he felt a kind of relief that he wouldn't trade for the world. It felt so right, so _effortless,_ like he was and endless desert and Hannibal was the only water for miles; He was the only salvation in the relentlessly tortured span of Will's life.

He decides to drop the weighted thoughts and finishes his breakfast attempting to keep his mind at a blank page.

He leaves his empty plates on the long dining room table, and then wanders into the library as he does every morning.

All it took was a small step into the study and a glance at the shelf above Hannibal's desk where old medical books were lined up side by side, and suddenly he knew. Maybe he'd known it all along; maybe his mind decided now to piece everything together, the mere tattered covers of the medical books just acting as a trigger. He panicked, then, and ran over, flustered and stumbling to the shelf and reached up to snatch one of the books from where it sat calmly and quietly on the shelf. He sifted through it for a long while, hands trembling and mind spinning. He knew, but he still didn't know why; he didn't trust it. It took two books and hundreds of pages to flip through until he found it: the _Wound Man_- an illustration used in various early medical books. It displays different kinds of battle injuries, all etched in one figure. All the sudden, everything was falling horribly into place.

He remembered the sixth victim of a case he'd worked on years ago, when the Chesapeake Ripper was active. The victim had been laced to a pegboard where the tools hung, his whole body torn up in cuts and stabs, arrows protruding everywhere on the surface of his flesh. The sixth victim's position and injuries were an exact match to the _Wound Man_ he was now staring wide-eyed at.

He remembered Hannibal's name, suddenly, when he'd seen it all those years ago. It had been scrawled on the admissions log in the hospital, on the same night, in the same hospital, where the same victim had visited when Hannibal was on duty. He had been admitted because he'd gotten an arrow stuck up in his thigh, five years before his death...his death at the hands of Hannibal.

Maybe it was luck; maybe it was a coincidence that Will had seen it, but it was there, in plain sight, and however far fetched it may seem to anyone else, Will knew it was true; Hannibal was the killer.

He didn't have the time to register what he was seeing, however, when he hears the front door of the house creak open, and then heavy footsteps coming closer and closer. Will panics, and for a moment he can't do anything. He just stands there with the book still in his hands, shaking beyond control, thinking he's surely dead now. But at the last moment he slams the book shut, stuffing it back on the shelf in which he'd retrieved it from, and rushes over to an armchair, picks up the book on the little table next to it, and tries his best to act natural. He repeats the words in his head, needing something to cling to, to focus in: act natural act natural act natural.

When Hannibal finally enters, Will is sitting with a book in his hand, tapping his foot, his whole body trembling, his mouth dry. He doesn't look up.

Hannibal stands there unmoving for what seems like centuries. He surveys the scene, calculating every detail of his office. "Good evening, Will." He says curiously. "You're sitting in my chair."

Will raises his eyes just above the edge if the book and swallows, preparing to make his voice sound less shaky than his body was. "I...um, am I? I-I hadn't noticed." He lets out a nervous laugh. He feels like he's going to throw up.

"You're also reading my record book." Says Hannibal, and amused smile peeking out from under the mask.

"Oh...uh, yeah, yes, I...was curious." Will sees it then; the words written in Hannibal's perfect script, and his eyes scan the page full of names and times until he comes across his own: _W. Graham, 7:30 pm._

He drops the subject then, much to Will's delight. "You'll have to slip into some more appropriate attire, Will," says Hannibal with a reassuring tone as he turns to leave. "We're going to the opera."

Hannibal begins to walk away. "Wait!" Will calls. Hannibal sticks his head around the doorframe. "They...they let you in with the...the-you know- the mask?"

"I have a special correspondence with the managers. They're more than happy to cooperate with my requests."

_Oh_, Will mouths. He watches the muscles contract in Hannibal's back as he exits.

...

The suit Hannibal had chosen for Will is too tight. He tugs at the sleeves the whole performance, shifts uncomfortably in his seat, wishing he could jump out of his own skin and escape.

The opera house is too crowded afterwards. There are swarms of people everywhere, buzzing around like flies. Irritating chatter fills his ears. The clunk-clunk of women's heels are deafening. Bodies brush up against him or nearly knock him over, but his mind is so loud he barely even notices. He trails after Hannibal in a daze as he babbles away about how wonderful the performance was and how he has to throw another of his infamous dinner parties sometime soon.

All the while Will is trying to collect the mess of thoughts cluttering his mind: _My name is Will Graham. I am an FBI profiler. I am sane. Hannibal lecter is the copycat. Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper. They are one in the same...I have to get out...I have to get out before he kills me...But is that his intention? What does he want from me? What does he_ want_?_

And his thoughts trail off again into an incoherent jumble, and he'd have to start all over.

The walls start to close in on him then, and the crowd was surrounding and trapping him. He broke out into a cold sweat, tunnel vision taking over his eyes, narrowing his sight. He was definitely going to throw up this time.

Suddenly familiar faces started appearing all over the crowd; the face of Garret Jacob Hobbs, the first and only man Will had ever killed. Abigail Hobbs, his daughter. Georgia Madchen, the girl who caught fire and died at the hands of the copycat, the Chesapeake Ripper, Hannibal. An armless Marium Lass. The girl with the antlers stuck up in her. And every other face was Hannibal, his mask transparent as he wore a satisfied smirk. They all hiss in the same rhythmic chorus: _"_See?_ See?_"

Out of nowhere, Will feels a small, soft hand slip into his and pull urgently, and he's so surprised and disoriented by his previous thoughts that he allows the hand to pull him forcefully through the crowd. After a moment he loses sight of Hannibal. The body attached to the arm leading him away is impossible to find in the sea of people; but for a moment he sees a flash of black hair, and relief washes over him. She doesn't have to pull him for the rest of the way, for he follows obediently, eagerly, as she guides him out the front doors of the opera house and onto the safety of the streets and the hum of traffic and the fresh night air.

"Where the _hell_ have you been?"

That's how Alana greets him, with an edge of hostility in her voice concealing any real concern she might have, and he can't help but smile in spite of everything, because it's so her. Everything about her suddenly becomes like a shrine and he wants to worship it forever to make up for the time he spent without it; 'it' being her hair falling in perfect black curls and her icy blue eyes and petite body and her arms crossed over her chest and her low, husky voice as she breathes in the cold, and her scowling face, though her sad eyes gave away the warmth she was trying her best to hide in from him.

"I've been worried sick- you can't just go _missing_ like that, what were you _thinking-_" and then she breaks down, her anger fading as she cries, "Don't _ever_ do that to me again."

Will is surprised to hear genuine worry in her voice, but he has no time to take it in before he's being engulfed in a tight hug, and he returns it thankfully, breathing in the sweet scent of her.

"Alana," He says, tone suddenly serious as he breaks out of their embrace, "How long have I been gone?"

She sighs, knowing his lack of time keeping is a bad sign. "Weeks, Will. You've been gone for _weeks_."

Suddenly panic rises up in him again, remembering his previous revelation. "Has there- has there been any more killings?"

She gives him an impatient glance. "Depends on what you mean. There's been numerous cases. You've missed all of them, but I'm more than glad- you need a break more than anything at the moment. Jack's been absolutely lost without you, though. You really should take advantage of his dependance more often." She's talking fast, choking the words out as if he'll disappear again, leaving nothing behind but a puff of smoke like the witch from the _Wizard of Oz._

Will shakes his head, frustrated. "No, I mean, the copycat killer, the Chesapeake Ripper- have either of them struck again?"

She nods her head.

He grabs her shoulders abruptly, forcefully, and her eyes widen in shock. "Alana, listen to me. I know him, I know them, they're the same person. We have to get out of here, we have to do something before he comes back, and certainly before he kills again-" Will swears he sees a shadow looming over them out of the corner of his eye, and he jumps back, glancing wildly behind him.

"Will! You're acting paranoid- c_alm down for a minute, stop jumping around like you've seen a ghost-_ Will, look at me." This time she's the one who grabs his shoulders, forcing him to look her in the eye. He relaxes a bit at her touch. "Will, I believe you, I do. Tell me who."

Will swallows, knowing once he utters the name, there is no going back.

"Hannibal Lecter."

Alana raises an eyebrow, disbelieving. "Hannibal Lecter? You mean the genius psychiatrist?"

"You know him?" Says Will, confused.

"No, of course not, but I've heard of him. Never met him in person, though, it's rare to come across someone who has. In fact...I don't think I've ever even seen a picture of him. Suppose he likes to keep a low profile." She sighs. "You realize how paranoid...how _unbelievable_ this is going to sound, right? He's a trusted and well-respected psychiatrist. You're going to need a lot of evidence to arrest him at the least."

Will takes a step back, a feeling of betrayal sinking into his heart. "You don't believe me."

"No, _Will-_" She grabs his hands, pulling him back to her. She wraps her arms around him again and leans her head against his chest, preventing him from escaping her embrace, more afraid of him leaving her again than she'd like to admit. "I don't know what to believe. Just because I might not believe you doesn't mean I think you're lying. I know _you_, and I know you're not a liar...Honestly, I'm just glad you're okay, that you're alive. "

For a moment they stand there in the middle of the deserted sidewalk, wrapped around each other, and the fear and desperation was fading out of Will as he closed his eyes and caressed her smooth hair.

"What are you doing here, anyways?" He asks into her ear.

"Looking for you."

"How'd the hell did you know I'd be here, then?"

Her voice is muffled as she speaks into his coat. "I have my ways."

"Alana," Will says softly, unwrapping his arms from around her to look her in eyes, taking her face in his hands. Suddenly the words flow out of his mouth in a steady river, and he tells her everything; about his tendency to see Hannibal for as long as he could remember, about the night he kissed her and why he disappeared so suddenly afterwards, about his peculiar devotion to Hannibal, about the unmasking, about the Wound Man, right up to the opera they were now standing in front of. All the while he never removed his hands from her face, never broke eye contact as they gleamed and glistened with every passing word Will spoke to her.

"There has to be evidence for what he's done...if we just called the police, searched his house..." Suddenly Will's eyes glazed over, and he backed slowly away from her, turning to stare out onto the street, watching the oncoming traffic go by.

"I know I should hate him," Will said dreamily, "But I can't. Maybe I pity him. Even now, I can't hate him, even though I know what he's done. I still all feels like just a dream. He's just a shadow of a man, a phantom. It doesn't feel real. Like you've finally woken be up from a...blissful nightmare."

Alana sucks in a breath. "Well, all I can tell you is that you have an unhealthy relationship to start with. You're dependant. He's obsessed. It's going to end well for neither of you."

He turns back to her again, and this time it's him who initiates an embrace.

"I'm scared." He admits quietly, pulling her back into his arms.

"Don't be scared." She says, looking him in the eyes. "I'm going to figure this out. I'm going to figure out what's wrong, with him, with _you_- I'm going to protect you."

"But...we have to do something, before he does it again, before he kills again...and you and I, we have to get out of here, before he kills me, before he kills you..."

Alana remains unworried. She merely smiles shyly and blushes. "Where would we go?"

He grins. "Wherever you like. I've always wanted to live by the beach, though...just putting it out there."

"Oh, so now we're making commitments to live together? How sneaky of you, to slip that in." She smirks. "And so have I," she muses. "I'd love to get away from the cold. To live in the sunlight, and the sand..." She sighs, resting her head on his shoulder once more. "What a wonderful fantasy."

"It doesn't have to be a fantasy," he whispers. "I would go, if you would follow. Say you will. Say we'll get out of all this and live at our little house by the sea. "

"Someday. But you know I can't make that promise now."

Of course, he knows she's just saying it to amuse him, to calm his nerves, and in every other situation he'd have loathed being dumbed down like that. But he wonders if her mouth tastes as sweet as her promise sounds, and her lips were so close to his and he wanted to drink in her words and keep them inside him to remind her later of her engagement to him and their house by the sea.

"Thank you." He says.

"For what?"

"You're always honest with me. You don't play games, like all the others. You make me feel sane. You never ask too much."

"Well, now I am," she whispers, closing her eyes and leaning her face closer to his. "love me."

Simultaneously the both lean into each other and she lays her lips feather-light on his. Their second kiss is light, chaste, savoring the most innocent taste of each other.

"I stand by what I said before," She whispers, breaking their lips apart. "we wouldn't be good for each other."

"It doesn't matter," He mutters, his mouth pressed against her cheek."It's just a kiss."

And then he brings her mouth fully to his, deepening the kiss, and for a fleeting moment it's just blissful oblivion, without the fear of death or darkness looming over their heads; everything else is forgotten in the world besides her lips on his and her arms around his neck and his hands on her waist. He lifts her off her feet after a while, and she laughs into his mouth, and he laughs as well, feeling happy, feeling light, as if her kiss could give him the power to fly away.

"I have to go back," he says breathlessly. "At least for tonight. Just so I don't seem suspicious."

Her eyebrows furrow, disapproving. "You know I can't allow that. Just minutes ago you were terrified out of your mind of him."

"I know, I know, but you're gonna have to let me." He keeps his forehead pressed against hers, staring into her bright sapphire eyes. "And then I'll come back. I swear that to you."

Neither of them notice when Hannibal steps out of the shadows moments later. It's Alana who sees him first, over Will's shoulder, and for a moment she thinks he's a statue, or a ghost. Then she sees the mask, and gasps. Will, having heard her, turns slowly, fearfully around to face him.

"Good evening," says Hannibal politely, eyeing Alana. She steps bravely forward, shaking his outstretched hand. "Hello, Dr. Lecter. I'm Alana Bloom." She can't read this expression, but she feels his eyes, staring right through her.

"Yes, Ms. Bloom," He spoke as if they were old friends. "I've had the pleasure of hearing so much about you from our dear Will. He seems to be very taken with you." Alana smiles at him, but he doesn't bother returning it. There is a strange tone to his voice, as if he were speaking in threat to her. And then, looking over at Will, "I think it's best we be going now, wouldn't you think?"

Alana watches in awe as Will follows Hannibal obediently, as if he were a puppet being pulled my invisible strings. Will steals one last glance over his shoulder at her as he stumbles into Hannibal's car, his eyes piercing and pleading with her.


	3. Chapter 3

Will knows Hannibal had figured out his revelation by the time they get into the car, that he most likely has known since he walked in on Will in his study that afternoon. There's no use holding back then, Will reasons. He glances over at Hannibal, whose eyes remain clear and focused on the road ahead. The mask obscures any glance at his expression, but the hard, unmoving one the mask provides is enough to put Will on edge.

He's filled with anger then, and the words come pouring out, his voice shaky with rage:

"It's you. It was you, all along. The one we've been searching for, the one who'd evaded capture for so long. The copycat. The Ripper. It was all you, you,_ y_ou!"

Hannibal didn't respond, didn't even detach his eyes from the road, until minutes later, his voice breaks the silence.

"I knew you'd find out at some point. You're much too clever to be fooled. I did underestimate you, I must admit. I thought I'd have a bit more time to play around with you...but all good things must come to an end. Curiosity got the best of you, again, I suppose-which I can understand. I'm still curious about you." Hannibal's voice remained flat, monotone, as if they were just making uninteresting small talk.

They go on in the deafening silence until after what seems like years, Hannibal finally says in his placid tone, "Evil is strange, isn't it? Nature isn't evil. It's only man who brings such senseless pain and aversion into the world...do you think I'm evil, Will?"

"I think you're insane." Will's voice quivered.

Hannibal chuckles darkly. "No, my friend. That would be you."

"Me?" Cried Will incredulously.

"Yes, you. You're very sick. The nightmares, the hallucinations, the empathy- I've known it for awhile now, but, I didn't want to frighten you. Your mind is a frightening thing."

Will's stomach churns, and he gulps.

"And to think, after everything I've done to help you, Will, you repay me by running off to your petty psychology professor."

"Alana has nothing to do with this-"

"She has everything to do with it." Hannibal interrupts. "She tainted you. Turned you against me." He makes a tsk-tsk noise. "What's to be done about that?"

"I don't know, Dr. Lecter. What is to be done about that?"

Hannibal pauses, contemplating. "I thought about killing you off, like the others, but only briefly. You're much too valuable for such a fate. Much too precious to me, I must admit."

"Precious." Will scoffs.

They finally arrive back at Hannibal's home, and Will stupidly attempts to run, but Hannibal grabs him by the back of the coat and tugs him forcefully all the way up the steps to the house.

Hannibal drags him into the dining room, where forks, knives, plates and platters, napkins and candles are all set up elegantly, the plates empty, waiting patiently for a feast.

"Sit down, Will." Says Hannibal, shoving him gently into a chair.

"There are three places set..." Will observes,"...why are there three places set?"

As if in answer, the doorbell rings. Once, twice. The shrill chime rings through their ears three times.

"I believe, my dear William, we have a guest."

Alana.

Hannibal turns his head to Will and places an index finger on his lips. Shh.

The truth of the situation doesn't have to be spoken for Will to know; It's the classic ultimatum. Do what I say or she dies.

Hannibal then walks slowly to the front door, and after a moment, Will hears their distant voices drifting in from the hallway. It's Alana who enters first, saying, "...and I'm sure you can understand my concern, Dr. Lecter-" And then, laying her eyes on Will at the dining room table, "W-"

The breath his name is cut off as Hannibal comes up behind her, grabs the back her head in his hands, and in a quick, precise movement, slams her head against the doorframe. It snaps backwards and her limp body topples to the ground. Will screams her name in agony, but it's no use- she's knocked out cold.

Hannibal leans over her body on the floor and moves the hair from out of her face, revealing a bleeding gash on her swelling forehead. "She'll be alright." Hannibal calmly claims. Will merely stares, mouth hanging open in horrified astonishment.

"I'm going to tell you a story now, Will." The way Hannibal keeps repeating his name puts Will even more on edge, making a shiver run up his spine and making his skin break out in a cold sweat. Hannibal goes to sit in his chair, and it could have been like they were just in one of their normal sessions- but this time Hannibal was the one confessing to Will, rather than the other way around.

Hannibal sighs and closes his eyes, like he's preparing himself. He takes his mask off then, and just as the night he saw it for the first time, Will has to fight the impulse to scream. He merely stares coolly at Hannibal in his gruesome face, as if he were unmoved.

He opens his eyes, gauging Will's reaction, and frowns at his indifferent expression.

Then he begins. "I'll make this brief, Will. I wouldn't want to bore you." Hannibal says coolly."I presume you wonder how I came to look this way? Well. I'm going to tell you, so listen carefully. I was born in Lithuania in 1965. Ten years after my birth, my sister, Mischa, and I, were orphaned after a German Stuka bomber attacked a Soviet tank in front of our forest hideaway. Shortly thereafter, we were captured by Nazi collaborators." He talked as if he'd practiced this speech in front of the mirror a thousand times, but nothing could have prepared Will for what he heard next. "They murdered and ate Mischa before my eyes, and did this-" He gestures toward his face, "-to me. Naturally, I hunted them down later in life. Slaughtered them, one by one. I suppose that's when it began- but that is certainly not how it began."

Will lets out a loud breath. "So that's why-"

Hannibal chuckles again, like it's all just an amusing game; which, Will reminds himself, it is. "You can empathize with anyone. So do it. Work your magic on me."

Will swallows. "There is no why, or how, or when..." but he can't finish. The words are caught between his throat, trapped in his mind.

What was Hannibal Lecter? Psychopath? Sociopath? Will had every kind of crazy running through his head, and still he couldn't fathom what could possibly be going on inside this man's.

Sociopath would be the easiest answer, Will thought-Hannibal shows no remorse or guilt at all. But from what Will gathered, he wasn't a drifter, no previous trouble with the law, he wasn't shallow or exploitive or insensitive. He can function perfectly normally when he wants to-except for the glaring fact of what he does behind closed doors. What he does when no one is looking, what he chooses for his prey. Was it possible that he didn't fit any psychological profile? The mere idea drove Will crazy.

"You do it because you enjoy it. You just are." He finished finally.

"I. just. am." Hannibal said, as if tasting the words as they rolled across his tongue, testing out their flavor. He opened his mouth as if to say more, but a soft whimpering came from the corner. "You see, you cannot reduce me to one event or occurrence of any sort in the span of my life...not even the one that determined my fate for as long as I live on this earth. I am myself, just as you are yourself, and what I do is me, just as your nightmares and your projection is you. Ah," Hannibal breathed, "I see our little friend has awoken."

Alana let out a confused, pained moan from where her limp body lay in the corner, shifting and struggling to move in her disoriented state.

In one swift movement Hannibal picks her off the floor like a child and lays her on her back on the end of the dining room table that wasn't cluttered with dishes. She struggles to fight back, but her head was still pounding and her vision still blurry, and Hannibal was bigger and stronger; she stood no chance against him.

"And now," says Hannibal tersely, "shall we begin our feast?"

"What are you doing?" Will says, his whole brain and body going numb in fear.

"I can't just let her walk free, now. She was much too curious, too inquisitive, not unlike yourself. You two would've been a good pair, I must admit."

He pulls a scalpel out of his coat pocket, and lays it beside her carefully. He rips the scarf savagely from around her neck and uses it to tightly bind her hands together as her eyes bulge at the sight of his abhorrent face, at the shock of what he's doing to her. He then opens her coat and picks up the scalpel again, and with an expert's hand, tears her shirt open, exposing her bare chest and torso.

"I hate to have to be so unprofessional. So unsanitary." He sighs, as if apologizing for lack of proper dinner etiquette. "But this will have to do. You're a fisherman, but I'm sure you're familiar with hunting," Hannibal addresses Will, "I presume you know where we start?"

Will gulps. "We start," He whispers numbly, "by gutting."

Will stares in horror, too shocked to speak of move, as Hannibal places the scalpel in the middle of Alana's chest as she writhes and shrieks underneath him, and hovers it there, right on the surface of her skin, waiting.

It's then he realizes what Hannibal is doing; mocking him, teasing him, seeing what he would do. How far he would go to save her. Testing his loyalty to Alana as well as to Hannibal.

"Please," pleads Will weakly, "please, don't. I'll do anything."

"Come here, Will." Says Hannibal in his icy voice, sending a shiver rippling through Will's spine. Despite everything he was and everything he was doing, Will couldn't shake off the inexplicable need obey, to please Hannibal. Slowly Will goes to stand next to him, staring down a helplessly struggling Alana. He locks his eyes with hers at an attempt of reassurance, though their murky depths give away how unassured he is really feeling.

He sees real fear in her eyes, and that scares him most of all- he's seen everything else there, determination, adoration, anger- but never fear. He feels suddenly and completely selfish, for never considering her in the face of danger. She'd been the one always so insistent to protect him, and he'd been naive enough to never think of the potential of their positions being switched.

He hated Hannibal, suddenly and completely, hated him for the mere fact that he'd dragged Alana into this deranged game of his. Put them both into an act of this show he was presenting to amuse himself, this farce he was putting on for his own entertainment. Will hates himself just as much for it.

Hannibal's voice comes intimately close to Will's ear, its silky smooth lilt making his ears tingle. Yet, it doesn't entrance him like it used to. "We're only humans, Will. We all have our fantasies. Even I." Gently he picks up Will's hand and places it lightly on Alana's skin, luminous as it laid bare in the moonlight. She shuts her eyes tightly closed. "Her skin is soft, is it not? Just think of...consuming it. She refused you, Will. She deserves what's coming for her. This way...you can take a part if her with you."

Will knew what Hannibal was doing; trying to seduce him, tempt him into this unthinkable act. And frankly, he was dreadful at it. Something rises in Will stronger than anger or fear, and his whole body convulses with it. "She's not a goddamn piece of meat, you disgusting bastard. And you're right, I am just a human, which means my fantasies, unlike yours, are generally sexual rather than cannibalistic."

Hannibal lets out a cruel laugh. "Is that so? I'd say your mind is too full of nightmares; there's not room for much else. But that's no matter. It'll only be easier to cleanse your thoughts. I see me, you know, everytime I look at you. You are me."

"I will never be you. Never."

"Maybe not now, not thoroughly. But It's already started. Empathy isn't just an emotion, a feeling...not for you. It's a whole mindset, one am very curious about. All those killers walking free inside your head...you've learned from them, I can tell. You have evolved. You can attempt at resisting the manifestation and colonization of their power, harvesting in the places where a part of them already existed in you from the moment of your birth. You can say you merely understand them all you'd like. But you are them; the slaughterers, the slayers, the killers. I know you are them. In fact, I think you knew what you were doing from the start, even if it was still a subconscious plea for guidance. You came to me, a stranger, and opened up your gory mind to me, gave me all the specifics of where you worked, who you worked with, every little detail of the cases...and no doubt they told you it's classified information." Hannibal smirked.

"Did you enjoy my meals, Will? They were delicious, and you devoured them. And don't you understand yet how you caught me? It's because we're very much alike. Yes...you are very much like me. And I'm going to burn every last bit of good in you, and then the evil already in your tortured heart will be purified. We will be equals."

"Folie à deux." Will mutters. "A madness shared by two."

"Of sorts." Replies Hannibal.

"You're not going to get away with this madness." Says a weak voice from beneath them. They'd been talking over Alana as if they were preparing an animal for slaughter, which they were, in the eyes of Hannibal. She stirs, breathing the words with all the strength she can muster. "Do what you want. Kill me. I don't care. As long as they catch you, which they will. You can't run from this. I've already called Jack and the others. The police will be here any moment. It's over now. It's all going to end."

"No," explains Hannibal smoothly, "no, but you might end, Ms. Bloom. By the time they get here you'll be damaged beyond repair...or else, Will and I will be gone." He turned urgently to Will, and for the first time he saw a true emotion flicker in Hannibal's eyes; desperation. It was gone so fast that Will might have imagined it.

Hannibal almost lunges for him, taking a single stride to sever the physical void between them, grasping his shoulders tightly. "We can go, Will. We can go now and leave this all behind, start anew. We can go to Europe, across the ocean, where they won't be able to reach us. I'll make sure of it. There's a never ending array of places to travel, things to see. France, Britain, Germany, Spain, Italy. Think about it; the rich culture, the fine arts, the sweeping landscapes. And there's always fresh meat." Hannibal gives Will a sickening smirk.

Alana beings to gasp and sputter, "No, Will, don't throw your life away for me. Don't you dare."

Will's heart began to pace at a rapid rate, and fueled by anger and fear, he hisses in disgust, "Are you asking me to run away with you, Dr. Lecter? How...Romeo and Juliet. With the sick exception of you. Was this your plan all along? Did you think I'd be whisked away in a heartbeat, just because I have some...some penance to pay?"

Hannibal's face is calm, expressionless as he lifts his hands from Will's shoulders and backs away, turning to the dining table once more. "I'll take that as a no, then. I guess you'll have to say goodbye to your lover." This time he takes no time to tease before sinking the scalpel fully into her flesh, making a small incision in the soft skin between her breasts, about to pull down to make irreparable damage. Beads of blood appear where the sharp edge is cutting her skin, and it's like Will is in one of his strange dreams, witnessing things of the fantasy and horror genre in one; he can see an eglantine rose sprung up to bloom there in her chest; a wound, in need of healing. Cypress branches twist around her limbs and inside her, around the presently untouched organs laying in her skin; she was going to die, if Will doesn't stop it. They were warning him. She lets out a blood curdling scream.

"NO!" Will shouts, scanning the room for something, anything to use as a weapon- but the kitchen knives were the only option, and they were all the way across the table. He knew Hannibal would get him before he could reach them.

So he stalls.

"None of what I told you...none of that was-was intentional. I handed my mind over to you on a silver platter because I trusted you." Says Will angrily. "And you devoured it."

Hannibal slowly lifts the scalpel from where it was lodged into Alana's skin and closes his eyes, like he's contemplating. Concentrating. "Oh, we mustn't start with the metaphors, Will." He opens his eyes to give him a calm stare. "I might get hungry again. And we wouldn't want that, would we?"

"You used me," Will continues, "raised me like a pig for slaughter, waiting to fatten me up until I was exactly what you needed." The betrayal completely hits him then, full force. His body had been shaking before, but now it was an earthquake.

Will had never believed in the devil, in demons; the ones inside his head took away any pretense for them to wander outside the realms of his skull. He never believed in angels either; and it wasn't that he denied their existence. He just couldn't put his faith in something that wasn't tangible. But right there in front of him stood a mixed breed of angel and demon. There he was, the Devil, the fallen angel staring down at Will, and that's what he'd been all along. He lives among the humans, but he is not them; he is too cruel, and yet, too beautiful.

"You lied to me, betrayed me...all for some sick game." Tears begin to fall, and it makes him feel hopelessly weak, but he can't stop them. "It was all just for the sake of selfish curiosity. You never cared for me at all," he whimpers, and suddenly collapses to his knees, defeated. "I thought you were an angel...but you're just a demon who deceived me." He buries his face in his hands, sobs wracking his body. "I hate you, I hate you." He whispers as he rocks back and forth like a child in the midst of a tantrum.

"Do you, Will? Do you really?" Hannibal's lips curl into an amused smile. Like he's happy to have finally broken Will completely...but then it fades, in perfect time with Will's collapse.

"Oh, Will." Hannibal stares down at him in pity, and then reaches over to place a firm hand on his shoulder. "I do care for you. But my patience is wearing thin...so make your choice."

There's a shard of honesty in his voice, Will can tell. He suspects Hannibal doesn't even realize what it is, or that he's accidentally revealed it. But Will takes a leap of faith on it, praying for it to be just enough.

"If you ever cared about me at all," Will sniffs, "you won't do this."

The air seems to freeze as Hannibal sucks in a breath, eyes not parting from Will's pleading ones. He can hear the cogs clicking, shifting into place in Hannibal's head. He can hear the clocks ticking, tick, tock, counting down the seconds until time runs out to make the earth-shattering decision.

It's that moment when Hannibal realizes he cannot keep Will Graham, because he will never really have him, not now. The possession is over; the power he held over him was now diminished, and could never again be repaired. Will was of no use to him, and that was the biggest disappointment of all. He had tried so hard to secure Will in his grasp, and yet here he was, weakened by his humanly feelings for some woman. Pathetic, really, it was; that's what Hannibal thought. He knew abruptly and fully that Will was now rendered useless to him by his own accord.

He could just kill them, he knew. And he would- but it seemed such a pity to ruin the perfect gem he'd crafted so perfectly. Will would suffer now, anyways, no matter what happened; it wasn't a total loss to Hannibal. Besides, the world was be much more interesting with Will Graham in it...suffering, drowning, dying in inescapable nightmares.

When Hannibal walks briskly over to Alana's writhing body on the table, Will thinks he knows what will happen next: He'll utter something along the lines of, "caring saves no one in the end.", and then he'd unbind the scarf from Alana's wrists to wrap it around her neck and strangle her until her lips were blue as her veins.

Hannibal unbinds her wrists, like he'd thought; but what he says is so unbelievable, Will thinks he must he hallucinating again.

"I fear," Hannibal remarks serenely, "I fear you were not meant for darkness." He fumbled with the scarf a moment longer until Alana was released, stepping back from her quickly, as if he were attempting to restrain himself.

"Go. Just take her and go, before I change my mind. Which I will."

It takes a long moment before the words have their full effect; before both Alana and Will realize what exactly they mean.

It all happens so quickly then; and he watches silently as it all plays out, quietly observing. Will and Alana both spring up towards each other, Alana stumbling, shirt still undone and blood still dripping, but Will catches her and clings to her, and they embrace and kiss before him. And then they were rushing towards the door, drifting through the house like ghosts, clinging to lives they had almost lost. Alana, literally, and Will, because he had invested his life in both Alana and Hannibal, and losing either one meant losing part of himself.

He still watches the way they touch each other with gentle, intimate hands, the way they look at each other with blue eyes clear and wide, taking in the sight of each other alive and well when they had expected it to go any other way. They were perfect, somehow, picturesque, despite the horror all around them.

Hannibal has no other choice but to come to the impossible conclusion that they love each other.

Will steals one last mournful glance at Hannibal before slipping silently into the night for the last time.

That was enough a victory in itself. Will and his mournful stare, as if he truly, faithfully believes Hannibal is being merciful. He'll be immersed in thoughts of Hannibal's supposed sacrifice for as long as he lives.

When Jack Crawford arrives along with the rest if the police force, Hannibal is standing at the window, looking solemnly out at the snow, freshly fallen. Crawford is drawing his gun, telling Hannibal to put his hands in the air, that he is to be arrested, and demanding to know the whereabouts of Will Graham. Hannibal merely gives him the perfect cheshire smile and says in his low, rough voice:

"There's no need to fret, Agent Crawford. Will Graham is gone, as well as the girl. They are gone, but are not dead; but he will die, you see, far more slowly and painfully than he would have at my merciful hands. When all is said and done...he will come back. He will finish the job I started and he will shred himself to pieces until there are none left to repair, and he will come back for me. He will love me still, he will care for me." There was no scrap of remorse in his voice. Just cold, hard satisfaction. "His poor tortured soul will never be able to resist. It's a pity, really. That's what made it so easy- He cares too much." Hannibal's eyes raised to look straight at where the gun was pointed in his pitiful face. "They always do."


End file.
